Standalone GIGs
by qirien
Summary: A set of SAC shorts. 1: Heart in a Box: Valentine's Day! 2: Tarnished Titanium: Batou's mysterious photo. 3: Through a Glass, Darkly: Togusa's wife's challenges. 4: A Perfect Date: Ishikawa has a date!
1. Heart in a Box

Heart in a Box 

Author's Note: _Happy Valentine's Day, everyone! In Japan, Valentine's Day is a day for women to give chocolate to the men in their life. Of course this means sweethearts, but usually it means friends and co-workers, too (obviously, you get nicer chocolate for people closer to you). Now, lest you think the men have it easy, they're supposed to reciprocate on White Day, March 14, with white chocolate and other gifts. I think they have Valentine's Day first so that the men know who they have to get stuff for. :-)_

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_for my eternal Valentine..._

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February fourteenth was, so far, an ordinary day. Wake up, take a jog, go to work, the Chief calls a briefing . . . Batou was waiting for everyone to arrive when Paz walked in carrying several grocery bags. He dumped them on the table without comment, and Borma leaned forward to take a look.

"Chocolate? Oh, is today Valentine's Day?"

"What! All of this is yours, Paz!" Batou's eyebrows raised in astonishment. "I guess I shouldn't be surprised, but I am." Paz shrugged.

"Yeah. Eat what you want."

Togusa reached for a piece, taking a moment to admire the red ribbons and the card that said, "愛しい人の為に". Another card read, in English, "love explosion!" "Wow, you're going to have a lot of work to do on White Day," he commented.

Paz looked to the side, lips pressed together, eyebrows furrowed in his characterstic expression of non-expression.

". . . not really."

Aramaki entered the room, still silent from Paz's comment, and as the briefing began, the day began to take a slightly-less-than-ordinary turn.

"Last night, there was an intruder inside Section 9."

The briefing room erupted into uncharacteristic surprise.

"What!"

"Is that even possible?"

"Are you sure it wasn't just the cleaning crew or something?" Aramaki stood, silent, eyes hard, waiting to regain their attention. Slightly embarrassed, they quieted down and waited for him to resume.

"The cameras detected a slight amount of movement that appears to be a thermoptic camo residue." One of the red-suited technicians pushed a button, and a short clip of the office hallway played. Sure enough, they could see the characterstic ripple of thermoptic camo, though it was very slight, and the shape was not distinguishable.

Aramaki continued, "That is the only evidence we have. The logs show no records of anyone unauthorized entering or exiting the building at that time."

"What about somebody authorized," the Major asked, seriously.

"No one at all, between the time you left at 2300 hours and the time the cleaning crew arrived at 0500. This video is from 0300." He cleared his throat. "Our scans have not detected any large-scale explosives or other malicious material, but there is still a possibility that the intruder could have left something malignant behind. Ishikawa, Borma, I want you to examine the computer system logs, to see if there was any activity there. Saito, Pazu, take a look at the security records, and see if the cleaning crew saw anything. Batou, Togusa, I want you to do a physical search of the premises for forensic evidence or foreign material. Major, I want you to check the computer systems to make sure no data or systems were compromised." He glanced around at them, watching for their affirming nods, before adding, "I don't need to tell you to be careful -- the perpetrator could still be in the building. Now find out who did this, and why." As he left, and the other members of Section 9 began to dissipate, Batou stretched and stood up, looking over at Togusa.

"Well, detective, where do you suggest we start?" Togusa paused for a moment, then answered,

"The only place we know the intruder came through is the office hallway from the video, so let's look there." Batou nodded,

"Sounds good. Mind if I stop by my office to check my messages? I'm expecting someone to get back to me about the Miyamoto case."

"No problem." Togusa followed Batou to his office. As he was about to sit down, the former detective noticed an unfamiliar object on Batou's desk.

"Looks like you've got an admirer" He pointed to the heart-shaped sweet sitting in a gold-leaf trimmed box on a red doily on Batou's desk. "Maybe I shouldn't ask . . . but who's it from?" Batou looked up from his computer in surprise.

"What? Chocolate?"

"It is Valentine's Day, you know." Togusa smiled slightly, a little nostalgic for times of secret admirers and mystery chocolates on Valentine's Day. He knew he would find a meticulously homemade chocolate bonbon in his lunchbox, just like every other Valentine's Day for the past eight years. Not that it was a bad thing -- he knew his wife probably spent more time than she should on it, and he appreciated it and the secure love it represented. It just wasn't quite as exciting. Batou squinted in puzzlement.

"Huh, I guess it is . . . but who would send me chocolate? It's not like her," he stopped, then continued, "It's not from the OL's, is it? No, they're not programmed to do things like that." He stared at the innocuous brown lump. Togusa bent closer to take a look and asked,

"Does it say who it's from?" Gingerly, Batou picked it up, looking underneath it and lifting the box.

"Doesn't seem to be any message . . . Wait a minute, you don't think this is from the intruder, do you?" Batou set the chocolate down carefully, and was about to lick his fingers of the chocolate residue, but stopped and wiped them on the doily instead.

"What, you have a secret girlfriend who would sneak into Section 9 to leave you chocolate for Valentine's Day?" Togusa couldn't resist the jab.

"No! I mean, what if it's poisoned, or contains a nanovirus, or a tracking beacon . . . I don't know, I can think of all sorts of nasty things an enemy could put into a piece of chocolate." Togusa nodded thoughtfully.

"That's true . . . I'll take it down to Forensics and have them take a look at it," Togusa suggested, producing a plastic bag from his pocket and scooping the chocolate, box, and doily inside.

"All right; I'll search the rest of this room" As Togusa left, Batou examined the desk more closely. He thought maybe a few papers had shifted, but it was hard to tell . . . until he pulled up the visual record from his artifical eyes of the previous night, and compared it to the current state. Yes, a few papers were shifted slightly, but everything was still there. Nothing confidential was on the papers, so it didn't matter if an intruder had seen them, unsettling as it was. _The chocolate couldn't be from **her** . . . could it? She's never been the type to remember holidays like Valentine's Day, much less take the time to buy something as frivolous as chocolate for anyone . . ._

He laughed, silently. If it had been Motoko, there wouldn't be any trace at all. The fact that there was any evidence meant it was definitely someone else . . . assuming the chocolate and the intruder were related.

Examining the rest of the room, he couldn't see any other signs of disturbance. He was just looking at the door frame when Togusa got back.

"Hey, Batou, they said that as far as they could tell it looked like normal chocolate -- but they're going to run a few more tests, just in case." Togusa stepped closer to see what Batou was looking at.

"Togusa, take a look at this -- this doorway didn't have this dent in it before."

"Yes . . . it looks very fresh," Togusa noted, looking around for other evidence. A little further down the hallway, Togusa pointed to a section of the opposite wall at about shoulder level.

"There. Looks like another scrape of some sort -- it's very straight, though it's pretty short. And here, on the floor -- there's a black skid mark"

"There's another scrape on this wall over here . . . there seems to be some sort of paint residue on it." Batou glanced around, looking at the hallway from an investigative standpoint. "This is where that security video was from, so it's probably a clue to the intruder." Using a pair of sterile tweezers, Togusa carefully scraped the paint into another plastic bag. Pulling out a magnifying glass, he scrutinized the tiny scrap carefully.

"It looks . . . blue?"

"Blue paint? Why would there be blue paint . . . " Batou trailed off, examining the paint scrap closer, and replayed the security video of the thermoptic camo. _That round shape . . . that blue color . . ._ He wasn't sure whether to laugh or groan. "Well, Togusa, sounds like we have some suspects to question in the hangar."

* * *

The two investigators barely had time to step out of the elevator before they were accosted by hyper Tachikoma.

"Batou-san, Batou-san!"

"Nice to see you too, Togusa-kun!"

"Do we have a fun job today, Batou-san?"

"Did you find anything . . . interesting today?"

"Shhh! It's supposed to be a secret, remember!"

"You've caused a lot of trouble, you know," Batou said seriously, addressing the whole group but focused mainly on his Tachikoma.

"Uh-oh . . . was that a bad thing to do," the Tachikoma raised its arm questioningly. "We heard that Valentine's Day is a day for giving chocolate to men you like. . . is that incorrect?" The Tachikoma's head drooped a little, giving it a pouty look. Batou sighed,

"No, that's what the day's for. But your sneaking around had everybody worried that there was an intruder."

"Oh no!"

"That's not what we wanted at all!"

"We thought you'd be happy!"

"I told you you were too big to fit through there!"

"Hey, 'it's better to have thought, and counted, than to have never loved at all', right!"

"That's not how the saying goes!"

Batou interrupted them before they could really get off track. "Anyway, thanks for the thought, but you know you're not supposed to leave the hangar by yourselves. So . . . just remember that." They nodded enthusiastically, and he and Togusa headed up the elevator. The Major's voice on the comlink came in suddenly.

"Batou, Togusa, have you found anything?" They looked at each other, and her serious, urgent voice contrasted with the ingenuous naivete of the Tachikoma suddenly made the whole situation was just too hilarious. All they could do was laugh.


	2. Tarnished Titanium

Tarnished Titanium 

_This takes place at the very end of GitS:SAC #16, Chinks in the Armor of the Heart - Ag2O._

* * *

At the moment, Batou just couldn't stand to see anybody, even Togusa. Especially Togusa. They all made him sick. Nobody appreciated what they had until it was gone, himself included. Zaitsev had had everything -- a stable, fulfilling career, Olympic fame, a loving wife, physical health -- and he threw it all away. For what? Money? _Idiot._ He arrived in the workout room and punctuated that thought was punctuated with a particularly forceful blow to the punching bag. Memories flashed through his mind -- all the peaceful, happy times he hadn't appreciated, people he hadn't appreciated. The Tachikoma playing _go_, teasing the Major about using a female cybernetic body, solving a simple case with Togusa . . .

* * *

"Hey, Batou, I finished that military ID you asked me about." Ishikawa tossed a wallet to Batou, who caught it, opened it, and stared.

"What . . . is this?"

"Took an old picture of you and stuck it in with a visual capture of the Major, and used an advertisement for her pose and the background." He grinned cleverly. "You said you wanted to seem like a family guy." Batou just looked at the photo for a long moment. And another long moment. Finally, he asked,

"Who's the kid?"

"What, you can't tell," Ishikawa asked mischievously.

"I only know four little kids, and none of them look like that."

"Well, sure, only four people who are kids now . . ."

"What, did you use an old photo of yourself or something?" Ishikawa just laughed, and Batou joined him, looking closer at the picture. "Now that you mention it, this does look a little bit like you . . . but that's kind of a twisted little family, isn't it?"

"What, you don't like it?", Ishikawa teased, reaching for the photo. Batou snatched it back reflexively.

"I didn't say that. It'll . . . work just fine. Thanks." He started to go, but Ishikawa called after him,

"No problem. But if you want any more pictures of the Major, you're going to have to pay me for them. This one's a freebie, though."

"What! Why, you . . . !" He was about to give Ishikawa a not-so-playful punch, when the Major's shadow fell upon the two as she entered the computer room.

"Pictures of me? How boring . . . you could just download PR pics of this artificial body online. Some of those are even already nude," she said emotionlessly, but with a mischievous glint in her eye.

"Major . . ," was all Batou could think of to say, but Ishikawa grinned and rescued the awkward moment.

"Hey, Batou, let her see the ID I made for you."

"What? No, no, there's no need for that . . ."

"Sounds interesting. Maybe I'll take a look." She deftly slid the wallet out of his jacket pocket and opened it. She stood there for a moment, expressionless, and then smiled sweetly. "I'm sure glad I'm not really your mother, Ishikawa."

"Ha! Not as glad as I am, that's for sure."

"Oh? Why's that," she asked innocently, handing the wallet back to Batou.

"You're scary enough as it is."

* * *

The memory flashed through his mind as he pummeled the punching bag. A wife. How impossible was that. The Major was nothing like that picture, and even if she did decide to humanize herself enough to return affection, what would be the point? What, would they share experiences by synchronizing, like the Tachikoma? Would that make them more human? There could be no children from a union of cyborg weapons; nurturing of life was the antithesis of their death-specialized existence.

He almost laughed, wryly. There were always the Tachikoma -- the infant weapons whose battle prowess was only surpassed by their naivete. Fitting "children," he supposed. But even caring for them, as he had tried to do, hand-feeding one synthetic oil from containers shaped oddly like baby bottles, was denied him, now that they had been sent away to be dismantled.

Section 9 owned his cybernetic body, they owned his time, they owned his loyalty, but that wasn't enough. They had to own his emotions, too -- all his love and care were, ultimately, futile. The Tachikoma were to be deactivated, the Major was distant as ever -- and there was nothing he could do about it.

Punch, punch, left, right. He wanted to punch right through the synthetic skin on his fists, to feel muscles too tired to move another inch, to be gasping for air. But even those evidences of life, that control, were denied him. Normally he liked the sense of control, of precision, of perfect movement and strength that accompanied working out -- but today he felt helpless. The bag swung wildly with the force of the blows, but Batou felt like he was the one being swung about -- by Section 9, by his emotions, by . . . her.

But what could he do? It's not like he could just forget about the Tachikoma, forget about her. He couldn't really just say, "I don't care" and stop caring. He couldn't change her, not that he wanted to, really. He couldn't run away -- where would he go? Everything that mattered was right here, at Section 9.

All he could do was control his own two fists, as they beat rhythmically and mechanically, in time with his artificial heart.


	3. Through a Glass, Darkly

**Through a glass, darkly**

Author's Note: _This fanfic takes place during episode 12 of 2nd GIG: To Those Without a Name: SELECON, and there are minor spoilers for that episode._

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"If you have to carry a gun while you're off-duty, then you can quit your job at the security company!" It had been a week since she spoke those words to her husband, when he was being held during the trial, but every time she went to bed by herself, she thought them again with spite, and then remorsefully wished she could take them back. As her body tossed and turned, in her mind she waffled between anger at his frequent absences, self-pitying loneliness, and tearful fear for his safety. She wondered what Togusa was doing now . . .

* * *

"You came at just the right time -- please come with me!" The professor's assistant grabbed Togusa's hand and began to drag him up the stairway.

"H-h-hey!" Togusa could tell the man was worried, but had no idea why he was in such a hurry. He heard muffled but intense voices coming from above, and then they burst into the door of the room. A man held a sharp knife to his own neck, trembling, while others begged him to stop.

* * *

_I should feel lucky -- I have a devoted husband who works hard to provide for our family -- why can't I just be grateful for that?_ She thought she heard her son crying -- no, it was just her imagination. She sighed with relief. Usually, he just went right to bed, but tonight he had thrown tantrums over everything -- she wouldn't let him have cookies for dinner, he wanted to take a bath with daddy, he wanted to play with the kitchen knives, his sister wouldn't give him her pencil . . . The frustrated screams echoed in her head, even though now he was sleeping peacefully. After each tantrum, as it got more and more difficult for her to be patient and calm, she couldn't help thinking, _Where is he! He should be home by now . . . _

* * *

"Calm down; I'm just here to talk," Togusa said calmly, holding up his hands nonthreateningly. But the man would not be calmed.

"Don't come any closer!" His grip on the knife tightened, and a woman screamed. Togusa slowly inched forward, hoping to keep the man talking long enough to change his mind, or disarm him if necessary.

"You know the essay entitled, 'The Individualist Eleven,' right?"

* * *

_He probably just forgot to call. Again._ She pushed down a wave of resentment, and tried to calm her breathing so she could sleep. _And after I made one of his favorites for dinner, too . . ._ No, she refused to feel angry at him. He was just doing his job, he was working for the family -- she couldn't very well get mad at him for that. But she felt so helpless and alone. _What if he got shot again and he's lying in an alley somewhere?_

* * *

The knife -- or was it a letter opener? -- was dull enough that even though the man began to cut, and blood spurted onto the window behind him, the cut wasn't very deep. Togusa leapt across the desks, confiscating the man's knife and trying to limit the loss of blood. Blood spattered onto his face, but he didn't flinch.

"Somebody call an ambulance," he yelled, pressing the man's coat over the wound.

* * *

Finally, just as she was about to fall asleep, she heard the front door open. Shoes clunked quietly to the floor, and she got up groggily to meet him.

"I'm back," he whispered, unsure if she was still awake.

"Welcome home, sweetie," she said, staggering sleepily down the hallway and trying to sound welcoming and not at all bitter or sad. "Did you eat already? I made _gyoza_ . . ."

"That sounds great . . . but I'm not hungry." Images of the man cutting into his own neck with a knife refused to go away. Togusa hoped he had cleaned all the blood off his jacket -- he didn't want to worry his wife any more than she already was.

"All right . . . well, I was just going to bed, so . . . " She turned to leave, pausing for a moment, and was surprised to feel his arms about her waist as he pulled her close.

"I'm sorry," he whispered into her hair. "I should have called." He couldn't really tell her about the stress of the Individualist Eleven case, about the gruesome scenes he had witnessed and the helplessness they all felt at being manipulated by Gouda. Even if he could tell her, he wouldn't have wanted her to worry even more about him.

"It's okay," she murmured, her frustration wilting. She closed her eyes, and thought of a hundred complaints she could vent, and let them go. "I'm . . . just glad you're home." She exhaled, leaning back her head against his chest. She could have told him about their son's tantrums, about how she had remade the _gyoza_ after the first batch burned, about how lonely she had been . . . but she didn't want him to worry about her. There were some things she just had to endure by herself. The old proverb echoed in her mind, "Women are weak, but mothers are strong".


	4. A Perfect Date

**A Perfect Date**

"You're leaving awfully early -- it's not even midnight yet," Batou remarked as Ishikawa passed him in the hall. "Don't tell me you've got a date." He chuckled at his own joke, and Ishikawa grinned back.

"Actually, I do. It'd be rude to keep her waiting, so I'd better go. See you in the morning." With that, Ishikawa left, reveling in Batou's speechlessness.

It seemed as though Ishikawa hit every light red on his way home. He considered hacking into the traffic control grid and making his trip a little easier, but decided against it. Finally, he arrived at his tiny one room apartment. Wires criss-crossed the floor, and most of the wall space was taken up with shelves of equipment and monitors that turned on at his approach.

_I didn't remember it being so dirty_, he grimaced, picking up a pile of empty take-out boxes and taking them over to the trash. Unfortunately, the trash can was full, so he had to take out the full bag and tie it up, and put in a new bag before he could begin to clean up. It had been a week since he had been home; but he was glad to see that his custom cockroach-hunter robot-cat had been doing its job. Now, if only he could program it to hunt trash, too . . .

He was halfway through formulating an algorithm when he realized he had better not be late. He hated rushing, but he had no choice if he wanted to be on time. _I hope she's worth it_.

* * *

Forty-five minutes later, he was waiting for her at an outdoor cafe downtown. _All that rushing, and now she's late_. As each woman drew closer, he wondered if it was her, but each passed by. He only knew her by her online nickname, "RobotDragoness", but he told her he'd be wearing a green shirt so she could find him. Well, Ishikawa didn't care that much what she looked like, anyway -- from their online discussions on various computer security forums, he knew she was sharp, realistic, and with a cynical wit that nearly matched his own. And she had liked his science fiction story about a planet of robots attempting to create and program intelligent biological life. _I guess I'll have to wait._

It was a bit of a stretch to call it a "date" -- neither of them was really the romantic type, and they didn't really flirt at all. The only reason he considered it a date was because she was a woman. _What if "RobotDragoness" is really a man? That would be . . . different._ Talking via online avatars wasn't quite the same as meeting in person, so he had asked her to have dinner with him tonight.

He shifted around on the bench. He thought about reading some technical documents while he waited, but he knew that as soon as started, she would arrive. He shifted in his chair uncomfortably. It'd been too long; he'd forgotten all his favorite witty things to say, he didn't know any fun places to go, he didn't know any of the latest karaoke songs . . . But, the comforting thing was, he didn't think she'd care. They'd just have a dinner, and talk, just like they talked online.

It had been an hour. He thought about messaging her, but he suddenly felt awkward. What if she didn't really wanted to meet in person? What if she was just being polite, and he had misinterpreted. What if she had taken one look at him and turned around and left?

Before he could begin to sink into a mire of self-pity, he stood up. _Whatever. I have things to do at home -- _.

"Ishikawa? What are you doing here?" He turned, and saw the Major sitting at a table behind him.

"Major! I thought you were working." She shook her head, and he continued, "Ah, well, I was supposed to meet someone here, but she never showed up."

"Sit down, I'll buy you a slice of pie." He sat, a little surprised.

"Thanks, Major. I guess I should know better than try to get a date at my age, huh?" The waiter came at a gesture from the Major, and she ordered the pie.

"So, I've been thinking about some image recognition algorithms," Ishikawa said, changing the subject, "but I can't decide whether to use Bayesian neural nets or a simple decision tree to train the classification data. The data's not too clean, and the categories are pretty fuzzy . . . " He explained his goal, in general terms, and she had some good suggestions -- of course, he never admitted it was for his robot cat. After a half-hour or so, and three pieces of pie later, they said good-bye and he went home. Suddenly, he stopped and put his hand to his forehead.

_No, no, no. RobotDragoness . . . is the Major?_ On the one hand, it seemed impossible -- the Net was so vast, with so many people, the chances of meeting someone you knew were minuscule. But on the other hand, it did seem awfully coincidental that she happened to be at that same cafe, on the same night . . . He shook his head ruefully. No wonder "RobotDragoness" seemed too good to be true. There was only one person that perfect.

And she was way too perfect for him.

* * *


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